Les Cirque des Rêves
by lanternsinsilver
Summary: In which Holly is a contortionist in a black and white circus, and Artemis Fowl is at risk of losing his mind. "Who are you, really," he asks in a voice crisper than gold and smoother than silk. "Slow down, bourgeois boy. You'll find out soon enough." Night Circus AU.
1. Prologue

_A/N: Blame this one entirely on Alchemechanist. I may have been brainstorming in her inbox recently when suddenly I started seeing little snapshots of Artemis as an illusionist and Myles and Beckett taming lions, and I simply could not resist. Thoughts, critiques, and criticisms are most appreciated c:_

**Les Cirque des Rêves **

_"A dreamer is one who can find his way to moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world." - Oscar Wilde, 1888._

Prologue

The snow first falls when Artemis Fowl the First contemplates an idea of vast impossibility. He thinks in the comfort of his office, his thin mouth quiet and thoughtful as he sips his tumbler of well-aged whisky.

The fireplace snaps ecstatically in the far corner of the room, tongues of brazen red and orange licking at the wrought iron mantelpiece. The lights are dim, muted to a color that blurs the fragile line that separates the excess of reality from lucid hallucination. Artemis Senior's eyes roam over a number of countless blueprints that overlap on the cold surface of his oak and cherry desk, and it is when his glass is empty that he allows a rare smile to curve the stiff corners of mouth.

"Butler," he calls, already reaching for the bottle of alcohol to pour himself another glass. He hears Butler knock on his office door precisely three times before the manservant enters, two silent bundles wrapped in expensive fabric nestled soundlessly in his muscled arms.

"I hope you don't mind the twins tagging along," he says in a low tone, careful not to wake them up. There is a particularly harsh wind that slams against the tall windows, and one of the bundles stirs softly in his dreams before falling back to sleep. Artemis Senior's stern face breaks into concern at the sight of his two children, and he shakes his head, keeping his voice low as well. "No, no, of course not," he mutters, "but I am afraid that they will find our conversation tedious enough to start bellowing again, and I wouldn't want to wake Angeline from her sleep."

Butler nods his agreement and sets Myles and Beckett Fowl in a crib his employer recently set up only nights before Angeline's pregnancy was due. He adjusts the blankets for a moment, catching the rustle of Artemis Senior's night robes behind him. He looks to his right to find his employer thoughtfully stroking his beard, his gaze lingering on his children before he murmurs, "They are beautiful."

"They resemble their older brother when they aren't causing mayhem in the manor," says Butler with a hint of a smile.

"Very true . . ." says Artemis Senior absentmindedly, his thoughts returning to the blueprints cluttering his mind. He sighs, rubbing the exhaustion from his eyes.

"Sir?" says Butler.

"The circus, Butler," he says, voice tinged with exasperation. "It is completed. Kara, Mustafa, Dmitri and I have discussed the final plans concerning the designs, the shows, the spectacles . . . opening night is soon," he says, running a slender hand through his salt and pepper hair.

"How soon, sir?"

A sliver of moonlight slices through the velvet drapes tumbling down the windows, illuminating Artemis Senior's icy blue eyes, which look almost ethereal in the shadows, sparkling with a mild excitement, moments from blazing into a feverish day dream once the insomnia takes toll on his slipping mind. "A year? Fourteen months? Oh _I don't know_, Butler, something along those lines," he says, waving a careless hand at the towering man.

Butler cranes his neck and his eyes find the blueprints coating Artemis Senior's desk. Faint sketches of tents easily as tall as buildings stand huge and needle like, scratches of white chalk detailing the unfurling paper. Mazes that stretch wide and narrow occupy a large segment of the plans; stalls and strollers selling baked exquisites that have not yet been made public, statues of animals, men, women, dream and nightmare alike, litter the circus grounds, swirls of black and white glitter coating the ground in patterns of Arabic origins. He notices papers concerning a fortune teller's lair, a room compromised of jars of every imaginable shape and size, gardens of ice and rain and fire labeled boldly in black print, contortionists twisting on a circular platform, a room swathed with paper dolls that hang on the tent ceiling like stars . . .

Butler blinks back, overwhelmed at the sheer detail of the circus. And for a moment, he takes pity on his charge, whose fingers are twitching with the yearning of noting down _one_ more detail- a side note amongst infinite numbers of side notes.

"Sir," he begins cautiously, frowning at his employer's recent slight frame and the deep creases wrinkling his forehead.

_How malnourished he looks_, thinks the younger man, _how stooped his shoulders are. _

"What is it, Butler?" asks Artemis Senior frantically.

"This circus . . . it is ludicrous. Surely you will not carry out such impossible plans during only one measly year. Our technology cannot sustain it, even for a minute," says Butler.

Artemis Senior considers his words for a minute, and then he smiles. A burst of gleeful insanity dances behind his tired eyes. "Ah– excellent observation, dear Butler. But who is to say that we will be relying on something as trivial as technology?"

Butler frowns. "What are you proposing then, sir?"

"_Magic_, Butler," breathes Artemis Senior, his eyebrows drawn in absurd amusement. At Butler's frown his smile widens. "There are things in this world that even you are not aware of, old friend. Secrets beyond your wildest imagination. This is a project unlike any other."

"It consumes you," Butler insists. Seeing the sharp look Artemis Senior gives him he bows his head in shame, aware that he has spoken out of line. Butler takes a deep breath, and continues in a tone several degrees less demanding than its former. "I only worry for the best of you, sir, and for the best of this family. Angeline is teetering in and out of mental stability. Artemis sulks quietly in his room, constantly reading about concepts that his superiors shy away from. You only ever leave your office for midnight dinners, and the sun has not touched your skin in months."

Artemis Senior's face is grim, placating. He glances at the crib for a fleeting second before shifting his attention back to the manservant. His tone is crisp, concise, and unrelenting. "I know that Angeline is dying," he says quietly, voice ripping through the silence like an axe, "she has not been the same since the twins have been born, and there is nothing you, nor _I_, could do about it. This circus will honor everything she represents. Were she to have been stable she would have snatched the idea out of my hands and execute it all by herself. Don't you see, Butler? The circus is a _symbol_ of Angeline. Of her imagination. And I will _not_ abandon it . . . abandon _her_, for as long as I am living."

Butler gives a stiff nod. "Very well, sir. Am I to leave you with your children?" he asks.

"Yes," says Artemis Senior softly. "Their company often douses me with inspiration. The night is yours, Butler. You are free to go."

At his dismissal, Butler bows his head again and departs the office, his chest contracting with worry.

Artemis Senior sighs deeply to himself before hobbling towards his desk, plucking the untouched glass of whiskey resting on an empty blueprint and downing it in one go. His eyes stray from the leaping fireplace, which throws dancing shadows on the circular Turkish carpets, and land on the blueprints. A slow smile stretches his lips.

"Les Cirque des Rêves," he wonders, pouring himself another glass. "The Circus of Dreams."


	2. Ballet in Silk

**Chapter One: Ballet in Silk **

Artemis Fowl the First had always been a man of finery. His multi-billion dollar empire, strewn in ringlets of silver and gold and studded with clear cut emeralds, had blinded the sliver of good coiled deep inside his heart until he had no longer paid heed to it, his criminal mentality settling into his conscious like a well worn suit.

He had swindled millionaires, cajoled royalty, sent powerful men gibbering to their graves, and had not felt an ounce of guilt out of it.

That is, only before he had met his sharper than diamond, tougher than leather wife, Angeline Fowl, a pristine Russian beauty with the personality to match. Artemis Senior had resisted her at once, as most powerful men do at the presence of love, but eventually righted himself under the hawkish gaze of his newly pregnant wife. She had extended one slender, silver spangled hand, and guided him out of the skittish land of the illegal and into a potential-soaked world that was in desperate need of his ever expanding imagination.

One could say that it was here that the inkling of Artemis Senior's idea of a circus was sparked to life, but it is crucial to note that the magic coursing through the circus never truly materialized until the birth of his first child, Artemis Fowl the Second.

Now, it is safe to assume that Artemis had been a prodigy from the very moment he opened his eyes, mastering Beethoven at the mere age of four and later pursuing Bach only three months after that. His eyes, eerily similar to that of his father, observed anything and everything. Some would grin foolishly at the permanent scowl wrinkling his premature features and claim that his mass intellect was certainly derived from his father, while others would smirk knowingly to themselves and mutter that no, Artemis had gotten it all from his mother.

And so it would not come as a surprise to anyone that at only ten years of age, Artemis had put it upon himself to understand the logic and reasoning nestled behind the complex nature of illusion, and to some extent, magic. He had come from a long line of oracles and magicians, illusionists and storytellers, and so it would only make sense if he . . . shall we say, carried on the family business.

.

.

Artemis was only twenty-one when he felt more than knew that his mother was dying.

Her opalescent eyes lacked their usual luster and sheen, her figure, which once stood swanlike and effortless, stooped haunchy and low. Her voice, which Artemis had always thought of as soothing and lilting, rung low and stiff.

The twins were only three years old at the time, constantly under the watchful eye of Domovoi Butler, who the twins assumed was more or less their real father.

"How much longer till the opening of the circus, father?" murmurs Artemis, keeping his gaze fixed on his mother's sleeping figure. Artemis Senior paces along a stream of stolen Moroccan carpets, his fingers twitching and constantly rubbing at his sagging brow. No longer the charming, thoughtful man who lured princes out of their riches, but a twitchy, paranoid, mumbling coot whose concerns only ever occupied the looming circus, and when he remembered, his mentally-ill wife.

"Two more months . . . two more months and we will seize the world by storm," mutters his father, stopping mid pace and forcing his eyes to meet Angeline.

"How . . . how is she?" he asks softly.

Artemis' gaze strays from his mother and lands on his father. A vein in his temple pulses. _She is dying, while you remain entirely oblivious_, Artemis thinks savagely, managing to refrain his brow from narrowing or his grip on his mother's hand tightening. "Two more months and yet the circus remains incomplete. Go back to your office and consult Mustafa on the phone," he says coolly, turning his attention back to the lying figure at hand. It hurt, ordering his father out of the room, but it was necessary.

Artemis Senior blinks, his feet already backtracking towards the bedroom door, but at the last minute his fingers ball, thrashing wildly in place. "I can help you," he insists meekly, swallowing thickly before continuing, "let me assist you." And then, after a pregnant moment, "_Please_."

Artemis feels his heart protest, but he knew that Artemis Senior was too far gone to be of any real assistance. His magic had contaminated his father's brain from years, and though he strongly resisted, it was not strong enough. _Forgive me, father._

"_Go_," he repeats coldly, his voice layered in persuasion and urgency, snuffing Artemis Senior's spark of defiance. "I have business to take care of." His father nods quickly, and exists though the silver gilded doorway.

Trapping the guilt in the deepest recesses of his mind, Artemis concentrates the entirety of his energy on Angeline's sleeping figure. He extends his hand, running pale, slender fingers on the front of her face, and prepares himself from his task.

He feels as if his training was leading to this particular moment. The circus would keep his family alive and wealthy, even if he died trying.

Artemis allows himself a deep breath.

"Until the end."

.

.

_Two Months Later_

Those who have not been blessed with the ravishing friendship of Artemis Fowl the First had often thought it strange that he gift his three year old sons with presents as bizarre and unconventional as twin lion cubs.

Those people have obviously not met the brazen likes of Myles and Beckett Fowl.

Highly gifted at the mere age of three, Myles Fowl had not only become a fluent reader of modern day philosophy, but has also taken to avidly posting his thoughts and criticisms of less favorable philosophical authors on his father's typewriter, often titling his pieces: Intelligents Que Vous, which would garner quite a few laughs from Butler and a nod of approval from his older brother, Artemis, whom he had always admired in secret.

Beckett Fowl, on the other hand, was born a storyteller, with an affinity for the performing arts (and pro wrestling). He was an irascible child at heart, with a riot of sun-bleached curls floating around his face. His smile was brighter than sunshine, sweetened in compassion and sparkled with mischief, and his father's business associates simply adored him.

At the rise of the third full moon of the new year, Artemis Fowl Senior raises his glass of _Dom Pérignon_ to his partners seated before him, a sincere, yet maniac glint twinkling in the ice of his eyes.

"A toast," he booms, gracing his guests with a shadow of his trademark hundred-watt smile, "to the circus!"

"The circus!" chorus his three partners.

They clank glasses together, the champagne bubbling a frothy gold as it spills at the edges, splashing on the glass and marble table.

Artemis refrains himself from joining the hubbub, instead choosing to content himself by observing his restless younger brothers, who are scampering after a pair of black lion cubs in the open space of the empty ballroom. He does, however, take a celebratory sip of his champagne.

"And we couldn't have accomplished it without the intervening help of your brilliant son," winks one of the associates, Kara, a former opera singer gracefully settling in her late sixties. Her silver hair is done in an elaborate twist, studded with miniscule opals that glint like firestones of various shades of peacock, emerald and diamond.

At such a comment Artemis shifts his gaze to meet her gray ones, and a warm feeling blossoms at the base of his stomach. "Kara, you are too kind," he says honestly.

"And you too brilliant," counters Kara with an affectionate smile, settling the prim glass of champagne on the table before folding her withered hands neatly on her lap. Mustafa Madani, a brilliant politician of age fifty-seven with a keen eye for the fine arts, chuckles low and shakes his head. "Kara, polite? Oh how the twenties have changed you, my dear," he says, Palestinian drawl thick and reverberating.

"Do not leave your growing gut out of this, Madani," pipes Dmitri Volski, a faint twinkle sparkling in his deep set hazel eyes. Volski, the youngest crime lord to rule the gutters of Siberia, had met Artemis Senior long before he had taken his first steps, and had kept close contact with the family ever since.

"Enough, friends," says Artemis Senior, his bravado apparent only at the presence of his lifelong companions. "Tomorrow reigns a new day. The world war has claimed most of the world's fascination with magic, and I feel that, given our current esteemed position in the ranking of our societies, we have felt a duty of the strongest need stir a growing sympathy within us. Tomorrow we will reintroduce illusion and sorcery to the world. An elegance at its finest."

He pauses, taking a second to appreciate the excitement gleaming in the eyes of his associates. Kara Delemeur's long lashes flutter gold with anticipation, whilst Volski and Mustafa creep an inch closer towards the edge of their seats. "Les Cirque des Rêves. The Circus of Dreams."

Volski smiles. "A child's dream, a logician's nightmare."

_My mother's dream_, thinks Artemis, swirling the bubbling nectar in his glass, _my father's nightmare._

_A/N: I am so sorry for the delay, but I kid you not when I say that this chapter has been in the writing/rewriting process for nearly two weeks. Needless to say I am pretty satisfied with the chapter, but I can only hope that you bear with me until we get to the really good stuff. This multi-chaptered fic will include a lot of the characters from the AF series, written in some variation or another. Thank you for those of you who reviewed, you guys are so wonderful and know that this chapter is dedicated to you ^^_

_And before I forget, all hail Jess (violettsirblou on tumblr) for the spectacular fic cover she's made in honor of this fic! Your art inspires the best of me c:_

_Thoughts, critiques, and criticisms are most welcomed._


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